


Jack Frost Nipping At Your Nose

by after_midnightmunchies



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Snowball Fight, Snowed In, Tickle Fights, conversations about mortality, cooking together, holiday fluff, inaccurate weatherman, lots of hugs and kisses, mention of past character death, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 05:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17339675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/after_midnightmunchies/pseuds/after_midnightmunchies
Summary: Lance only gets to see his boyfriend for a few months every year, thanks to his demanding job. He sure as hell isn't about to throw the night away because of a little blizzard...





	Jack Frost Nipping At Your Nose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pythagoreanpineapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pythagoreanpineapple/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Sami! This fic is super overdue and I can't apologize enough for that, but I hope you like it!
> 
> They requested "Snowball fight, ice/snow spirit au, ice skating, hot cocoa, snowed in," _most_ of which I managed to include ;)

Lance considers himself a master of awareness. Twenty-three years of sibling rivalry has his senses honed - there’s no Nerf dart or spitball that could catch him off guard. His niece and nephew would especially complain about how Uncle Lance always won their annual family snowball fight.

Needless to say, the snowball that catches him in the back of the head as he jogs down the steps of his university’s library is a huge shock. Powdery snow falls from his hat into the raised collar of his coat, a chill running up his spine as it dampens his shirt.

He whirls around to find the culprit, eyes squinting against the snow-covered landscape. There’s no way his track record is being tarnished without a fight.

“Show yourself!” he calls when his assailant is nowhere to be found. It’s a couple of days after finals, the barren quad reflecting the season. He himself is only on campus to return a few overdue books he’d found under his bed before the library closes. The only footprints he finds dotting the snow are his own, only adding to his apprehension.

When the silence persists, he sets his bag down and digs a gloved hand into the snow beside it. He packs the snow into a firm projectile, tossing it between his hands until he’s satisfied with its consistency. Now armed and dangerous, he stands to confront his attacker—

—only for another snowball to explode in his face. He doesn’t even feel the impact of it, but the flurry of snow that tickles his nose and decorates his eyelashes is evidence enough.

“Come on, this isn’t fair!” he groans, rubbing his face into his sleeve. As he lowers his arm and his vision focuses again he spots a familiar figure hovering before him, arms crossed and lips pulled into a smirk.

“Please, Lance, you’re like the king of not playing fair,” the man chuckles as he comes closer.

Lance rolls his eyes and flings the snowball, pouting when it glances harmlessly off of his target’s shoulder. He’s out of practice.

“That’s a hell of a greeting,” Shiro laughs, coming to stand before the brunet with open arms.

“I could say the same thing,” Lance grumbles, arms crossed, “you know I have a streak to maintain.” He allows Shiro to pull him into a hug, regardless, pacified by his boyfriend’s warmth.

“Don’t worry, there’s no one around to witness your defeat. Though you might want to work on your game before you go home for Christmas. If you keep this up, Nadia and Sylvio just might outdo you this season.”

“Impossible!” Lance snorts, taking a step back and raising his chin haughtily. “You wouldn’t have won if you hadn’t cheated!”

Shiro raises a brow at the challenge. “Asking for a rematch?”

Lance stoops to grab a handful of snow. “Only if you promise to keep it fair this time.”

Shiro raises his hands, eyes glinting mischievously. “Fine. Loser makes dinner?”

“No way! That’s a lose-lose situation for me,” the brunet scoffs. “Besides, I thought we could go out for dinner tonight.”

Shiro’s smile softens. “Alright, then loser  _ pays _ for dinner.”

Lance hefts his freshly packed snowball with a confident smirk. “I like my odds.”

* * *

 

“Betting against you is a terrible idea,” Shiro groans, pouting down at his wallet. “Never let me do it again.”

Lance spares a glance at his boyfriend, strewn languidly across his couch. “How else am I supposed to get a free meal?” he laughs, turning back to the mirror to finish his hair.

Shiro doesn’t respond, prompting Lance to poke his head out of the bathroom to check on him. The older man’s eyes are trained on the television, watching the weather report with mild confusion. He turns the volume up when Lance approaches, shifting on the couch to give him space to sit.

“—blizzard the size of Texas fast approaching the New England area. These states highlighted in red could see up to two-and-a-half feet of snow overnight. Residents are urged to stay indoors, and a blizzard warning stretching from Philadelphia to Rhode Island is in effect until noon tomorrow.”

The camera cuts from the frazzled weatherman to the female anchor, who asks skeptically, “And just when did this storm develop, Ben? Just yesterday you were forecasting a 10% chance of snow this weekend!”

The weatherman pats at his head with a handkerchief, though it does little to minimize the sweat glistening along his hairline. “Your guess is as good as mine, Karen! This thing developed virtually out of nowhere, though we can probably blame global climate change—”

“Shiro,” Lance turns to his boyfriend with a knowing look. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” the man asks with an innocent frown. “That definitely wasn’t me, but I’ll have to thank whoever it was because it got me out of buying dinner tonight.”

Lance swats him with the cushion beside him, squealing when Shiro scoops him up and tackles him onto the couch, tickling his sides.

“Lemme go!” he wheezes, waving his arms in a futile attempt at defending himself.

“Do you surrender?” Shiro presses instead, leaning more of his weight on him as he flails his limbs.

“Never!” Lance cries, eyes shut and breaths uneven as Shiro’s fingers tease his sides.

“I could do this all night, babe. It’s not like we have anywhere to be…” Lance’s eyes widen as Shiro wrestles one of his shoes off, efforts renewed as he tries to kick his hand away.

“I’ll make you… hot chocolate… if you stop!” he pleads, unwilling to admit defeat.

All at once the assault stops, Shiro stepping back with his hands up. “Do you have churros, too?”

Still panting for air, Lance pushes himself upright, studying his boyfriend’s hopeful expression with amusement. “I can make some,” he relents, “but only if you promise not to tickle me again.”

Shiro bites his lip contemplatively before nodding. “Deal. Now make with the hot cocoa!”

Lance laughs and stands, grabbing one of Shiro’s hands as he crosses in front of him. “Not so fast, big guy. You’re gonna help me!”

He leads the larger man into the kitchen, retrieving a spare apron from one of the drawers and throwing it at him. “We’re making dinner first. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m guessing your last hot meal was when I visited you in Australia four months ago.”

“I thought you didn’t trust my cooking,” Shiro shoots back, hands on his hips cheekily. The black apron tied around his torso reading  _ ‘Well butter my buns and call me a biscuit’ _ only adds to the sassy look.

“Humor me, babe. I’m hungry, and mama always said ‘four hands are quicker than two.’ Plus, the sooner we get through dinner, the quicker we can get to the cocoa and churros.”

When Shiro doesn’t argue he turns to his fridge, pulling a bowl of raw chicken thighs he’d seasoned earlier that afternoon out. Moving over to his pantry, he fishes out a small box of linguini and a jar of alfredo sauce, setting them onto the counter beside the meat.

“Can you fill the pot with water, please? Tap is fine.”

He listens to Shiro rummage through the cabinets for the pot as he turns back to the freezer, digging the bag of spinach he’d bought a few weeks ago out. As Shiro sets the pot onto a burner, Lance tosses the bag to him, carefully instructing him on how to microwave it.

He puts the water to boil, then fishes a pan out of a lower cabinet, slathering some butter onto it before placing it onto its own burner. When the butter starts to simmer, he drops the chicken onto it and turns the heat down, moving it around with a spatula.

The water for the pasta begins to boil beside him, Shiro moving to salt it before throwing the linguini in. Lance raises a surprised brow at him when he gives him a self-assured smirk.

“I pay attention! You think after years of watching you and your mom in the kitchen I don’t know how to boil spaghetti?”

“Well, that just earned you some major brownie points,” Lance winked before flipping the thighs. “Think you can handle seasoning the spinach, too?”

Shiro’s smirk immediately falls and his cheeks redden as he shakes his head. “I’d rather leave that to the professional,” he admits quietly.

Lance laughs, stepping back from the stove to plant a kiss on his boyfriend’s flushed cheek. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“Exist,” Shiro replies without skipping a beat. He chases Lance’s lips, planting a chaste kiss to them before they can get too far. His hands fall to the brunet’s hips, fingers cool against the sliver of skin they brush against.

Lance hums into the kiss before pulling back and patting Shiro’s cheek. “Stir the linguini or it’ll stick to the bottom.”

Shiro’s eyes widen and he quickly darts away to grab a utensil. Lance snickers to himself and turns the heat off of the chicken, drizzling the alfredo sauce on until it reaches the curved edges of the pan. He moves the thighs around until both sides are coated, then covers the pan to let them sit and soak.

Turning back to the spinach, he tosses a few flicks of salt and pepper into the bag before rolling the top and shaking it. He pulls a fork from a drawer and dips it into the bag, holding it out for Shiro to taste.

“Perfect,” he declares, then offers the wooden spoon he’s stirring the pasta with. “Care to finish it off?”

Lance smiles and takes the spoon with a bemused expression. “You know I have a spaghetti ladle, right?”

“I panicked!” Shiro whined, lower lip jutting out in a pout.

Lance laughs before bumping him out of the way with his hip. “It’s okay, just go set the table while I drain the linguini.”

“Is it even called a spaghetti ladle?” Shiro quips as he moves to fetch two glasses from an upper cabinet.

“I don’t know, you’re the geezer here,” Lance shoots back teasingly. “Weren’t you there when these things were invented?”

Shiro squints at him with disdain, drawing a full-bellied laugh from his boyfriend. “Man, I come all the way from Alberta to see you, and this is how I’m treated.”

Lance wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, moving the pot from the burner to the sink to drain the water. He fishes the colander from the dishwasher and begins to pour the pasta into it, calling over the splattering water, “You know, you’ve never told me how old you are.”

Shiro cocks his head at him, setting the napkins down. “Didn’t I tell you I died when I was twenty-four?”

“I know that,” Lance states with a flick of his hand. That interesting conversation had come up a few years back when Lance commented on how Shiro hadn’t aged since they’d met when he was seventeen. Although it’s been a few centuries since his death, it’s still a difficult topic for Lance to think about. “I mean since then. How old are you, really?”

Shiro freezes, brows creasing as he considers the question. Lance dishes the food onto plates and brings them out, setting them onto the table.

“I believe I died in the 1700s, but I don’t know the exact year,” Shiro finally shrugs, taking his seat. “They didn’t exactly keep calendars handy back then.”

Lance hums, picking at his spinach with his fork. He’s suddenly not as ravenous as he’d been before. “And you’ve been alone all that time?”

“No, there were some older spirits who came to help guide me, at first. And then I found a few groups of seasonal spirits around my age that I get to spend solstices and equinoxes with.

“And, I had a few flings here and there,” he admits, eyeing Lance warily. “But in all of my years, I’d never met anyone like you. I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone as amazing as you.”

Lance nods, though his eyes are still focused on his plate. He reaches across the table for one of Shiro’s hands, squeezing it when his boyfriend meets him halfway. “Do you think…” he begins, clearing his throat when his voice catches. “Is there a future for us?”

Shiro’s hand squeezes his back, drawing his eyes to him. Lance is surprised to find tears streaking the winter spirit’s cheeks. “Baby, please don’t talk like that. Of course there’s a future for us.”

“But what about when I out-age you?” Lance retorts anxiously. “What about when I’m too old to even throw a snowball?”

Shiro is at his side in an instant, pulling him into his arms. Lance leans his head against his chest weakly, the worries he’s been pushing down since they last saw each other finally bursting out.

“I don’t want to lose you, Kashi.”

Shiro keeps their hands locked, stroking his free hand through chestnut waves as Lance sobs against him. When his cries finally dissipate, Shiro cups his face in his hands, brushing a thumb over each cheek.

“Listen to me,” he whispers carefully, pressing his forehead to Lance’s. “I will  _ never  _ lose interest in you. There’s nothing in this world, supernatural or otherwise, that could captivate me more than you, and as long as you’ll have me I’ll be here.”

Lance sniffles at his boyfriend’s words, tears welling up again for a different reason.

“As for the age thing,” Shiro continues, thumbs catching his tears as they fall, “I’ve been searching for a solution to that for the past few years, and I might’ve found something that’ll work. I’ll only need a few more months to gather what I need before I can test it, with your permission.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll be glad to do it as long as I get to be with you,” Lance declares, wrapping his arms around Shiro’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

They remain curled together for some time, Shiro content to hold Lance until he calms down fully. When they finally part, Lance pouts down at the plate in front of him, the food long gone cold. Shiro follows his eyes and chuckles, scooping it up as he stands.

“Here, I’ll microwave it for you.” He plants a kiss on Lance’s temple before retreating to the kitchen to warm it up.

Lance trods in after him, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his head against his shoulder as they watch the timer count down.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against Shiro’s sleeve.

Shiro tips his head back to meet Lance’s eyes, mirroring the brunet’s smile. “Of course, baby. I’d do anything for your hot chocolate.”

Lance snorts and swats at his arm petulantly, earning a laugh from the winter spirit. “I hope you like the couch as much as you like my cooking.”

Shiro’s protests fall on deaf ears as Lance takes his food from the microwave and saunters back to the table, smirking all the way.

**Author's Note:**

> In case there's any post-read confusion, Shiro was a winter spirit all along! I wanted it to be a bomb of a plot twist, but I added a couple of really vague hints toward the beginning, (the lack of footprints in the snow, Lance visiting Shiro in Australia when it was winter there, Lance blaming the sudden storm on Shiro, etc.). If I have time in the coming weeks, I hope to do a sequel about Shiro's plan to overcome their mortality issue.
> 
> But yeah, I hope you enjoyed! You can come scream at me on Twitter now @after_munchies!


End file.
